It’s a cruel experience to be laughed at by those who think themselves superior; I’ve lived through that myself.
After finishing my degree in economics, I recently secured a job as an accountant at a private company. It seemed like my dreams had come true—a good job, stability, a chance to start anew in a bustling city. But from the very first days, I was plunged back into memories I had tried so hard to forget over the years. It was as if I had been transported back to my university days when I was branded as a “country bumpkin” and faced open disdain.
I’ll never forget how the girls from the faculty used to look at me—with derisive smiles, as if I were not human but a scarecrow that had stumbled into their glossy world. Unfashionable, without makeup, in an old coat, carrying a backpack filled not with cosmetics but with my grandmother’s homemade pies. I wasn’t focused on appearances—I just hoped not to miss the train, board the wrong bus, or mix up the campus buildings. There was no room for lipstick in my world—only fear and effort.
I hail from a small village near Chipping Norton. My dad worked in a workshop, and my mom at the post office. I got into university without tutors, connections, or money—just by staying up at night studying so hard my hands would ache from the cold. I was sure that once I was accepted, the worst was behind me. I was wrong.
Nothing changed. The local girls continued to mock me as I trod through the snow in my only suede boots—not fashionable, but warm. They walked past as if I were invisible, especially when I stood shivering at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. At first, they merely ignored me, then they began to ‘invite me for coffee’—knowing I couldn’t go because I didn’t have the money. It was their twisted amusement to watch me politely decline with a forced smile.
It was at this time I met Stan. Another “outsider”—a country lad from near Leamington Spa, skinny, shy, and quiet. He understood what it was like to sit in the library with a piece of bread waiting for the lights to come on in the dormitory. We became friends. We never dated but became true friends. We’re still in touch, in fact. He moved closer to his parents, helping on the farm and working at the local council. I moved to Reading, to be near my sister—she’s raising her child alone, and I can’t leave her unsupported.
Years later, I finally spoke of this for the first time. It was prompted by an unexpected visit from one of those “glossy stars”—an old university acquaintance. She walked into my office on business, haughty, with her chin held high, her hands well-manicured, and always wearing an air of superiority. She didn’t recognize me at first—or pretended not to. As if I once served her coffee. She brought in documents—all filed incorrectly. I calmly explained that they were all wrong, that with such documents she could jeopardize herself, me, and our entire organization. But instead of a polite response, she erupted, started yelling, and pointed fingers just like in university days.
For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eyes and, with a steady voice, said, “We don’t shout in this institution. Take your papers and leave the office. Fix them, then come back.” She silently grabbed the documents and left. At that moment, I felt not a sense of vengeance but relief.
I could have gotten back at her, mocked her as she once did to me. But I chose not to. Because I’m not like that. Because I’ve grown. Because I have dignity, which they tried to crush. I stood tall despite all the taunts, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I made it through university, graduated, got a job, I’m raising my niece, and supporting my family. I have real friends, a conscience, and the understanding that it is not the place that makes a person, but the person who makes the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the cost of cruelty. And if today, that girl with the backpack and frightened eyes were standing before me again—I would hug her and say, “You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You’ll grow strong.”
And you know, that’s the most important thing. Not to let people like them break you. Not to become like them. And to keep your humanity intact. No matter what.
